


Curare

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:18:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2786342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Adaar had every intention of being sick and miserable on his own, thank you.  For better or worse, Dorian has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curare

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink meme prompt:  
>  _The Inqusitior is sick. Not just some sniffles and sneezes here and there, either. They're slumped over in front of the fire all ashen faced and sweaty with every pillow and blanket in their room dragged into a nest because they can't get warm when one of the companions finds them like that._
> 
> _+bonus points if their LI ends up being used as a living furnace and a delirious Inquisitor starts confessing how much they like them_

“Sweet Maker, this is nightmarish.”  
  
Sairaas wasn’t sleeping. He hadn’t been granted even the respite of unconsciousness, with the thick clog of mucus threatening to suffocate him, and the harsh cough that rattled his bones every time he began to nod off. He was drifting in some strange, liminal fever trance, however, when his lonesome misery was interrupted by the very last voice he wanted to hear.  
  
“No,” he groaned, hoarse and harsh as grinding boulders, and tried to curl into a tighter, smaller huddle beneath his mound of quilts. His joints protested vehemently, as the dull, full-bodied ache he’d been suffering for what felt like a century sharpened to a warning bite.  
  
Sairaas groaned again, this time more discomfort than protest, and melted limply against the mattress. The sheets felt clammy against his skin, the pillow was sticking to his forehead, and the rank musk of sweat and illness hung around his bed like the heaviest burial shroud-- he would rather Dorian hop a ship back to Tevinter than take one step nearer to him in this state.  
  
Alright, fine, that was a complete lie. But no matter what sort of exaggerations his bleary mind conjured up, the fact remained that Sairaas was currently a seven foot plague rat wrapped in a quilt. This was absolutely no place for Dorian to be, for any number of reasons.  
  
“Oh yes, amatus, it really is. Nightmarish, grisly... truly,  _truly_  hideous.” His head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton, but Sairaas could still barely make out the click of Dorian’s boots against the stone floor, followed by silence. Either the man had stopped his foolish approach, or he’d continued on, and the rug was muffling his steps. Sairaas didn’t have the energy to turn over and check.  
  
He didn’t have long to wait before the mystery was resolved; the bed dipped under a familiar and usually eagerly welcome weight, and a blessedly cool palm was laid across Sairaas’ brow.  
  
“Utterly repulsive.” Dorian’s voice was so much nearer now, pitched low and soft with poorly masked concern. Sairaas should have rolled away, should have told his lover to leave in no uncertain terms, but the gentle touch was too sweet a balm.  
  
Dragging his eyes open taxed his willpower nearly to the breaking point, but he managed, blinking away the worst of the grittiness and peering up at the dark blur that sat beside him.  
  
“You look like shit,” Dorian said, the very moment Sairaas managed to focus clearly enough to see his face. Long, nimble fingers trailed up his feverish forehead, weaving into the lank mess of white hair and honing in unerringly on one of the slightly thickened patches of scalp where a horn would have erupted, if he’d ever grown any. Dorian’s neatly trimmed nails scraped there lightly, sending blissful shivers over Sairaas’ skin that had absolutely nothing to do with the chill chasing his fever.  
  
“Feeling like shit would be an improvement,” Sairaas managed to say, but the words caught like burrs in his throat, teasing out another bout of coughing. It sounded sonorous and wet, building from deep in his lungs, and the violence of it made bright spots dance like wisps at the edges of his vision.  
  
“Up! Sit up!” Dorian’s hands were no longer stroking over his skin, soothing; they were grasping instead, digging hard into his arm and shoulder and hauling at him with surprising strength. Not enough strength to budge his bulk a hairsbreadth, of course, but Sairaas could feel the swell of determination in his lover’s futile attempt to move him. Despite his own jellied muscles, Sairaas gathered just enough momentum to drag himself over onto his back, shifting up to slump a bit higher against the headboard.  
  
It was, admittedly, somewhat easier to breathe this way, even if the room was spinning dangerously.

“Go,” Sairaas said in a careful whisper that still managed to feel like swallowing ground glass, and swatted clumsily at Dorian’s wandering, assessing hands. “Before you catch this. Save yourself.”  
  
“Stop talking.” Dorian reached around him, yanking at the pillows until they bunched in a relatively comfortable pile behind Sairaas’ throbbing skull. “Of the pair of us, when did you become the dreadfully dramatic one, hm? Don’t answer that; you’ve always been ridiculous, from the very start. Do you want cold water, or hot tea?”  
  
Sairaas blinked, trying to keep hold of the thread of the conversation, as well as battling the dragging weight of his eyelids. The cold kiss of water trickling down his raw throat sounded like paradise, but tea might be just the thing to stave off his shivers…  
  
“Whoever put you in charge obviously never bothered to ask you a simple question.” Pulling the blankets higher over Sairaas’ chest, Dorian shook his head. “Bring on the world-changing decisions and you hardly flinch, but ask whether or not you packed dry socks or what you want for breakfast, and suddenly it’s all lost puppy looks and furrowed brows for half an Age. Water first, then tea later, if you like.”  
  
Dorian stood, padding over to the desk and the ewer of water that had been sitting there, untouched, since Sairaas had first collapsed into bed after being shooed quite vehemently from the War Room. Lifting the jug, Dorian gave the contents a cursory sniff, which morphed almost instantly into a sour, wrinkle-nosed scowl.  
  
There was a tug in Sairaas’ gut the moment Dorian’s palm lit with pale blue light; that subtle, benign response, that flare of recognition from his own magic, was pleasantly intimate. Comfortable, in a way Sairaas had never considered before.  
  
“Stale and tepid,” Dorian announced to the room at large, drawing the aura of his spell around the smooth glazed pottery and the water inside. “For not a moment longer. Honestly, what would you do without me?”  
  
“Wilt and wither.” The answer earned him a long sideways look, perhaps meaningful, but indecipherable in his current muzzy state of mind. Tilting his head back, Sairaas stared at the shadowy void of the ceiling instead. “Don’t want you to get sick, Dorian.”  
  
“A reliable source informs me that isn’t likely.” With only minimal leather and buckles to creak and jangle, Dorian moved silently as a shade, dressed down to flattering layers of silk and samite. Perhaps Sairaas wasn’t the only one feeling especially comfortable. “Don’t imagine I’d be within a hundred miles of all this nonsense if that weren’t the case.”  
  
The mattress dipped again, and Dorian’s fingers were icy and ever so slightly damp as they traced a slow line along the slope of Sairaas’ jaw.  
  
“Your bizarre qunari grippe has no power over Tevinter blood, apparently. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.” Dorian’s thumb traced over his chin, rasping against the grain of bone-white stubble that had begun to sprout there, and paying special attention to the thin divot of scar just below the swell of his bottom lip. “You can rest assured that you’ve not brought plague down upon your loyal vassals, my dear Lord Inquisitor. Except perhaps upon the Bull, but he’s already determined to  _kill it with liquor_  at the first sign of a sniffle. Now, here; I didn’t bother with the frost and the elaborate clarifying charm for my own amusement. Drink.”

* * *

 

By the look of the candles, more than two hours had passed by the time Sairaas realized he’d somehow managed to fall asleep, and had subsequently woken up with his face mashed against a swathe of buttery soft cloth. He wasn’t lying on his pillow, that much was abundantly clear. There was bottle-green silk under his cheek, draped not over goose down and flock, but over warm flesh and muscle. Expensive, tailored silk, complete with a blotchy stain of dampness where Sairaas had evidently been  _drooling_  onto Dorian’s collarbone.

Paper rustled nearby, the turn of a page, which was an even greater shock than the realization he’d managed to sleep without drowning in his own head fluids. He’d fully expected to find Dorian napping as well, but no, that had definitely been a page turning, and the chest beneath Sairaas’s face was rumbling with a quietly hummed tune rather than slow, sleepy breaths.   
  
There was no possible way that Dorian was both awake and aware of the embarrassing mess made of his shirt. Sairaas hadn’t yet been set on fire.   
  
It would be best, maybe, to get the unavoidable maiming and immolating over with sooner rather than later, but Sairaas was comfortable for the first time in what felt like years, able to breathe without the weight of a High Dragon crushing his chest. He didn’t feel good by any stretch of the imagination, but the barest shade of improvement was a marvel. It would be such a shame to waste this moment’s respite, even as it teetered on a knife’s edge.  
  
And so Sairaas said nothing, nor did he make any effort to remove himself from the scene of the crime. He dared, after a moment’s cautious deliberation, to gently tighten the arm he had apparently been allowed to fling over Dorian’s stomach. He was clinging to the other man rather like a child with a soft toy, but he couldn’t quite dredge up the energy to feel sheepish about it. The room felt colder than the Emprise, despite the mountain of blankets piled thick and pulled up to his chin and the merry crackling of the hearth. None of that seemed to make a difference, but Dorian was emanating enough heat that Sairaas might have worried about the linens catching fire.   
  
_Might_  have worried, if it didn’t feel so wonderful to press near and let the warmth soak into his bones.   
  
A touch to the back of his head, fingers stroking lightly but purposefully through his hair, further disproved the already feeble theory that Dorian might be asleep. As did the murmuring that followed, soft and soothing syllables that Sairaas could only partially understand.  
  
“Sleep,” Dorian said, amid whatever other foreign words were twisting his tongue. “Hush, amatus.”  
  
Let it never be said that, given the proper incentive, Sairaas Adaar would not do as he was told.

* * *

 

The second time he woke, Sairaas was struck by several direly important questions: what precisely had died in his mouth; why was it hotter than dragon’s breath beneath these quilts; and perhaps most urgently of all, could he fumble successfully for a chamber pot before his bladder burst?  
  
The answer to the third question was, thankfully, yes. Barely, but yes.  
  
Avoiding knocking his own teeth out by the narrowest margin, Sairaas managed to extract himself from the tangled bed linens without falling on his face, fumbling as the thrice-damned fabric snared his wobbly legs. His bedroom was dark, save for the flickering glow of the banked hearth; the world beyond the windows was nothing but inky void.  
  
Of course, Sairaas managed to find the chamber pot by kicking it, wincing as his toe clipped painfully against unforgiving crockery. It was no small mercy that the thing was empty.  
  
With clumsy fingers somehow even thicker than usual, he plucked at the knotted drawstring of his thin linen trousers, with the other arm braced against the wall as he prayed for his eyes to adjust enough to aim. The room was still shifting perilously, unsteady as a ship at sea, but the waves of dizziness were far less choppy than they had been.

Even though he couldn’t quite recall how long it had been since he’d last used a privy for anything but sicking up everything he’d ever eaten, the desperation of his bladder did not amount to much. Still, that pitiful showing was enough to sate whatever pressure had shaken him from sleep, and Sairaas was in no fit state to argue about it. He considered tucking himself back into his trousers for only the briefest instant; the cloth felt tacky and unpleasant, fouled with the sweat and stink of illness. He pushed the trousers off instead, kicking them away to be bothered with in daylight, then stripped his shirt off as well.  
  
At least one of the windows had been left open a crack, allowing a breath of clean air to freshen the stuffy room ever so slightly. Sairaas stretched, rolling his shoulders and revelling in the kiss of cold that pebbled his flesh. Tomorrow he would scrub himself pink in a long, hot bath, then soak himself wrinkly in a  _second_  bath, just to be decadent after so long wallowing in disgust. A second bath, just as hot as the first, but more for pleasure than necessity… perhaps with company, if Dorian could be persuaded.  
  
Shuffling back into bed, Sairaas swallowed back a very surprised, potentially very painful shout when the lumpy pile of blankets he hadn’t paid any mind suddenly spoke.  
  
“Ah, he yet lives. Marvellous.” Dorian’s voice was thick with sleep, like the purr of some big languorous cat. “If you’d died in the night, I’d have been very cross. All this coddling, wasted.”  
  
His heart was gradually abandoning its efforts to hammer out through his ribs, but Sairaas still paused with one foot braced on the carpet, unsure. “You stayed?”   
  
“Hm. If you’re addled, take it up with Solas.” The bedcovers rustled as they were tugged back, baring the sheets in clear invitation. “That herbal concoction you choked down was his idea.”   
  
Dorian was curled up on his side, surprisingly dressed from neck to thigh in something pale and roomy, with bare legs beneath; he’d never worn a stitch to bed in all the months Sairaas had known him, unless they were sleeping rough. The firelight caught his hooded eyes, glinting dark and liquid.  
  
“Well, look at you,” he said, limned in more than enough amused delight to remind Sairaas of his own nakedness. “Come here, amatus.”   
  
As tractable as usual when it came to this man, Sairaas eased onto the mattress without further hesitance. The quilts were dragged up before he could reach for them himself, not precisely tucked around him, but near enough. They smelled of fever, like a sickbed; Dorian’s hair smelled of smoky spice, and his breath was stale as manhandled them face to face.  
  
Lips, slightly dry but still plushly yielding, pressed against Sairaas’ forehead. The kiss lingered, moving neither forward or back, as Dorian’s hand curved around the side of Sairaas’ neck.   
  
That long, silent moment was eventually broken by a considering hum, and Dorian’s slow retreat.   
  
“You’re a bit less like a sizzling griddle now,” he said, leaving his hand where it lay, with his thumb stroking just under one pointed ear. “How are you feeling?”  
  
It was a question worth an honest answer; Dorian had stayed, after all, in this pit of despair. Of his own volition. Despite a freely admitted dislike, and a vehemently denied lack of talent, for anything to do with healing arts.  
  
“Better. Relatively.” Before Sairaas could decide whether it would be impolite to bridge some of the distance between them, Dorian was already scooting across the breadth of the sheets, close enough to tuck his head under Sairaas’ chin, one ear pressed to his chest.  
  
“Take a deep breath,” he instructed, and Sairaas buried his nose in the crown of Dorian’s hair before inhaling, dragging the scent deep into his lungs. After a brief moment, Dorian murmured a satisfied sound, hooking his foot between thick, grey calves.

Being treated like a trellis for a coiling Tevinter vine wasn’t an unusual occurrence, but Sairaas had expected Dorian to hang back until they’d both had the chance to wash away the miasma of illness. He was very pleased to be completely wrong, in this case.   
  
“Think I’ll live?” The question earned him a jab in the ribs, first a sharp prod of fingertips and then a pinch for good measure. Sairaas squirmed obediently, though it wasn’t nearly hard enough to hurt.  
  
“It’s likely, I suppose,” Dorian said, his spine arching when a broad hand spread over the small of his back. “I’m feeling surprisingly benevolent.”  
  
“Are you wearing one of my shirts?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Another pinch, this one directly on his nipple, and Sairaas didn’t have to exaggerate his reaction. He grunted, toes curling in the quilts, and rubbed his palm over lean muscle and familiar cloth. “You’re obviously still delirious with fever. And this is an appalling time of night to be awake, sober, and decidedly  _not_  having sex. Go back to sleep.”   
  
Sairaas dared to lower his voice to a deeper rumble, tempting a coughing fit that never came. It was worth the risk for the shiver it provoked, and the slight flex of Dorian's body, shifting closer to his own. “Mm. I like you in my shirt.”  
  
“Do you? What luck, then, that some hulking beast slobbered all over mine.”  
  
Shit.  
  
“Now, go to sleep,” Dorian continued, his voice ghosting over the hollow of Sairaas’ throat in a falsely soothing whisper. “Or I may just assume you’re well enough to discuss the folly of wiping snotty noses on imported silk.”


End file.
